14. Phoenix St. Pierre #3
“Feelings. Emotions. Inviting those into your life with him—not a good idea. I wouldn’t be shocked if he dumps your ass in two months after he builds you up with hopes and promises he’ll never fucking keep.
It’s the rich prick playbook. They’re bored, and they only care about themselves.
You’re just a toy for them to gnaw on for shits and giggles. ”
God, our mom said something similar. My heart is pumping so hard, it’s becoming harder to breathe.
I glower. “We’re not in a fucking eighties movie where the rich kid is playing a prank on the loser—not that I’m a fucking loser.” Jesus Christ.
“Life isn’t that far off from the movies. And it concerns me, as your brother, that you’re not even a little bit worried about this scenario.” His gray eyes fill with a heaviness that evicts humor. His hands skate across the sides of his skull. Gravity bearing down on him in an avalanche.
“You don’t need to protect me. You can stop worrying.” He’s majorly stressing and struggling to intake the next breath. “Birdie. This has nothing to do with you. Forget Tom.”
He cringes like he’s ready to toss my advice in the dumpster. “My Future Favor—I know it. I want to speak to Tom.” He takes a step toward me and outstretches his hand. “Let me see your phone.”
I walk backward, and my shoulder knocks into the music stand. It clatters to the ground. “You’re not getting my phone.”
“I won’t embarrass you—”
“I’m not fucking scared of that,” I cut in. “I’m more worried you’re going to piss him off, and I won’t hear the end of it. I have to work with him every day, Bird.”
“More reason for me to talk to him. Make sure his intentions are good.”
“He’s not my fucking prom date—”
Birdie lunges for my cargo pocket. I force him into a headlock and then shove him back. He angrily thrusts his hands against my chest. Something animalistic chews us. Something rawer. Soon, we’re pushing each other with furious, aggravated hands, and then we’re wrenching each other’s arms.
Our refusal to throw punches means we’re yanking and pulling, and we find ourselves on the ground.
I wrestle my brother like we’re back to being fifteen.
At every age, I’ve been stronger than Birdie, and I have him beneath me quickly.
I bring the back of his white button-down up and over his head, shielding his face.
A move I used to always do when we were kids.
He’s stuck in the fabric. “Fuck you,” he grunts, fighting with his clothes and not me.
“Uh, hello?” The sudden feminine voice jerks my head to the doorway. A young girl holding a violin case says, “Are you Mr. Fraiser? I have a lesson at seven.”
“No,” I say just as Birdie emerges, taking off his button-down in a deep pant. He’s shirtless, tattooed, and out of breath.
She blushes. “Uh, okay, bye.” She darts away fast.
I fall back onto my elbows with a heavy breath and a growing laugh.
Birdie collapses backward too and laughs hard.
Then as the noise fades with us, he sets his steel-gray eyes on me.
Not in an apology, but the heat is extinguished.
We don’t say sorry when we fight. Sometimes it just feels good to blow off steam with each other.
He tips his head. “You know what they’ll say about those St. Pierre boys? ”
“Mean as fuck,” I say.
“Dead upon arrival,” he adds.
We share the briefest of smiles.
It was our dad’s first critical review of Sophomore Summer.
We were near Berklee’s campus, and we made the mistake of asking what he thought over dinner.
“It’s a rock band,” he told us. “Set aside the fact that there are a thousand more just like you, do you really want to put more anger into the world? You know what they’ll say about those St. Pierre boys? ”
“Not legends in the making,” I muttered with bitter bite, knowing our dad wasn’t about to praise us for anything surrounding a band.
Birdie stared unblinkingly at his soggy fish and chips.
“Mean as fuck. Dead upon arrival,” our dad stated. “You want that to be you?” We’d heard this cautionary tale nightly our entire lives. And still, we’d rather be dead upon arrival than never even try to arrive at all.
Birdie reaches out and shoves my arm more playfully.
I shove him back with the same lightheartedness, and I catch a peek of the tattoo on his wrist. The words play on are inked in small script. I have identical ink on my bicep. Flashes of that night in Boston burst in my head.
Us leaving that pub and our dad’s harsh realism, us melting the snow with each furious footstep side by side.
We made it to the tattoo parlor that every drunken student went to for ink.
Birdie held the door open, then said in his husky voice, “It’s you and me, Phoenix. Wherever we go, we go together.”
“St. Pierres till the day we die,” I agreed.
It’d been an easy promise to keep.
We’re both musicians. We’re both driven.
We’re both sons of Miriam O’Toole and Philippe St. Pierre.
We’ve both leaned on each other and competed against each other.
And maybe up until a week ago, we could have stayed on the same road.
But I joined The Carraways—and where I’m going, Birdie can’t come.